Tell Your Friend
by BachelorJohnWatson
Summary: Sequel to "The Silicon Valley Mystery". Coming to terms with the aftermath of a tragedy and the presence of a new villain in their lives.
1. Blood Dirt Love Stop

**So, here we are. Just a couple of notes: Mary Morstan was supposed to die; her death is even mentioned in the books and sooner or later it was bound to happen here too. Granted, originally it had nothing to do with the story and it was just background information, and yes, that was pretty…harsh and overall sad and depressing ("but then I suppose, that was rather the point") but hey, it gave me plenty of room to build a new story. Also, The Sign of Four gave me the idea of a note on a dead body but it has nothing to do with it. For once, this story is just a product of my wicked mind.**

* * *

Sherlock climbs the stairs of 221B and once inside his flat drops the bag on the floor and throws the keys on the coffee table; he shrugs off his coat, closing the door behind him with a kick. The flat is cold and dark and Sherlock can see his breath fog with every exhale; he sighs and then flops down on the couch, drumming his fingers on the armrest with his eyes closed and his head leaned back. The pizzicato notes of Vivaldi's Winter suddenly rushing through his head urge him to stand up quickly and grab his violin. He places it under his chin and moves gracefully around the dark living room, lit only by the streetlights; he lets his left fingers linger on the strings for a second then starts moving the bow rapidly back and forth across them.

_- John. Did I ever tell you about my love for Baroque composer?_

_The doctor is sitting on his chair, reading the newspaper; he doesn't look at his friend, standing in front of the window, hands in his pockets and eyes fixed on the street, where the snow is slowly falling down._

_- No. Wonder how I lived this far without knowing._  
_- Yes, sarcasm, how original._

_John lowers the paper and then folds it in half._

_- Why the sudden confession?_  
_- It's snowing._  
_- …wow, you really are the master of deduction! – John smiles._

_With his back to John, the detective frowns and tilts his head to the side, his focus now shifted on two sets of footprints left in the snow._

_Female. Depressed. Adopted a dog hoping to feel better. Loves him - no, her - but is not working. _

_- Again, original._

_He turns toward John, who's staring at him with his eyebrows raised and his head rested on his left hand, waiting._

_- I went to Venice when I was a teenager. I was obsessed with Vivaldi and I practically forced Mycroft to take me there. It was winter and it snowed. Have you ever seen Venice under the snow?_  
_- What do you think?_  
_- Well, you're missing out._

The memory of that day starts building in Sherlock's mind, welcomed by the smallest hint of a smile on his face.

**###**

It's two in the morning and John is walking down a street; it's late October and an unusual freezing weather is engulfing the city, opposite of the unusual warmth that was embracing San Francisco just a couple of days before. John is dragging his feet, staring in front of him with a blank expression; he's walking with inertia and without intent, like a SatNav he's got a destination in mind and he's moving accordingly.  
It's been almost two hours, when suddenly his mind snaps back to reality and he realizes he's standing right outside 221B; he feels something in his hand and looks down: both stained with blood, one of them is holding a piece of paper. What now?

_Keys, John.  
_  
As a faint voice in his head guides him, John slowly opens the door while a familiar melody overwhelms him: the sound of Sherlock's violin makes his head spin for a moment. He feels nauseous and holds a hand on his mouth.

_Breathe.  
_  
John leans against the wall, inhaling and exhaling slowly.

_Move.  
_  
He grips the handrail and takes a deep breath.

_One leg after the other.  
_  
He swallows a gulp of air and curses his leg which feels like it's filled with lead.

_You can do this.  
_  
One step at a time, John climbs the stairs but stops at the one that creaks, gritting his teeth and holding his breath, fearing it might alert Sherlock: it doesn't. Vivaldi's music is filling the house, the stairs, his ears. He reaches the door of the flat and twists the handle: the detective sees John's reflection in the window and stops playing, carefully putting away his precious instrument.

- Ah, John. Did I ever tell you about Vivaldi's birth? He was born in Venice, the 4th of March, 1678. That day an earthquake shook the city and -…why are you standing there? Turn the lights on, would you?

Silence falls around them and Sherlock senses that something is wrong.

- Is this your new way of scolding me for playing at "ungodly hours"? Because it's not working.

John shifts on his feet and for a moment his right hand moves under the light coming from the street.

- What is wrong with your hand?

The detective takes a couple of steps closer but stops halfway; he rushes back to turn on the lamp behind him and looks back to the doctor.

- John? – He whispers.

The doctor is still wearing that blank stare that makes Sherlock shiver with fear for a second; he runs up to him and takes his face in both hands.

- John? John, look at me, John?

The older man finally meets his friend's eyes and gapes at him; Sherlock looks down at his bloodied hands and starts to move his up and down John's body, inspecting for wounds and checking every bone.

- It's not your blood. John? John!

They stare at each other for a while without saying a word until Sherlock fills the room with a whisper.

- …Mary.

John slides down from his grip and falls on his knees, crying uncontrollably: he stares at his hands, her name on his lips, while Sherlock kneels beside him but doesn't really know what to do.

- John I…I'm so sorry John, I don't…know…what can I do?

The doctor's chest heaves with each breath, a stabbing pain inside his ribcage every time he inhales with his mouth.

- You have to steady your breathing, otherwise you'll go into…

John starts to feel dizzy and falls down.

- …hyperventilation.

Sherlock helps him on his back, bending his knees; he places one hand on his stomach, just below the ribs, and the other one on his chest.

- You have to do something for me, alright? Take a deep breath through your nose.

John stares at him, scared and angry at the same time but following Sherlock's instructions nevertheless until his breathing comes back to normal and a new wave of tears comes down his face.

- Tell me what happened, John.

Sherlock shifts on his knees to stare into his eyes; his right hand ghosts over his cheek, uncertain.

- John?

The doctor swallows and licks his chapped lips, his chest slightly moving up and down.

- There's…there's a message for you.

* * *

**I need to ask you something, and I mean it, this time around I really need to know what you think. I know I said I'm not going to "slash it up" but I feel like I've crossed a line and it's too late to ignore it so I'm asking you: hint of slash or just close friendship? Keep in mind that if I do slash it up, this won't be an M rated fic and their relationship won't be the center of the story, but I feel like I've taken the path of the awkward silences and the slight touches and first kiss and stuff and I didn't realize it until now. Please, pretty please, let me know, I seriously need feedbacks for this.**


	2. My Fault

Sherlock falls back on the floor, leaning against the couch and fidgeting with the note in his hand; his own breathing is echoing in his head while John's cries of pain are a muffled sound in the distance.

_"Tell your friend". It's my fault. Mary's dead because of me. It's my fault._

- I'm sorry. It's me. It's my fault. I'm sorry.

John brain freezes while a pang of fear and anxiety jolts through his body: in an instant, he's kneeling beside Sherlock, yanking the note out of his hands. His expression changes, like something more important came up and everything else is just background buzzing.

- No, it's not. Sherlock, look at me.  
- I ruined everything.

_Bullshit_.

The doctor stands up, shifting his weight to lean on the good leg and wiping tears from his face.

- No, I won't accept this.  
- There's nothing to accept, it's not an opinion, it's…a fact.

John grabs Sherlock's elbow and forces him on his feet; he looks straight into his eyes and grabs the lapels of his jacket with both hands, shaking him slightly.

- No, it's not! Don't fall for this, it's not! This is…this is…

Sherlock's right hand tightens around John's forearm.

- …I need you Sherlock. I need you to stay rational and cold. I never thought I'd say this but…I need your indifference. I need you to solve this and I need you to stay focus and lucid, to insult people and risk our lives. I don't…

His voice breaks: John closes his eyes and lowers his head, fists clenching tightly around the fabric, while Sherlock breaks the silence with a loud sigh.

- John, I really do not master the art of hugging, so I don't really know what to do next.

The doctor chuckles but somehow his friend's reaction triggers him more pain than relief: he starts crying again and he loosens his grip.

- I don't… I don't blame you Sherlock. It's not your fault. Don't blame yourself either; you have nothing to feel guilty about.

Sherlock is staring at him with a pleading look, following his every move.

_Are we talking about the same thing?_

- I can't help it. Tell me what to do, John.

The doctor grabs the back of Sherlock's jacket, pulling him close: the detective falls into his arms, wrapping his right one around John's waist while his left is holding his head, fingers lazily stroking his hair.

- I'm sorry.  
- I know. You have to help me with this or I'll lose my mind, Sherlock. I'm serious.

They stay like this for a while, with Sherlock still clumsy in his movements but strangely comfortable and John's face pressed against the detective's shoulder. When John's breathing slowly comes back to normal, Sherlock takes a small step back, looking at him: he doesn't have to ask.

- No, I haven't called the police. I wanted to call Lestrade but I saw…the note and…I came here.  
- Smart move, John. Can I? I mean…the…

Sherlock clears his throat and John stares at him with a puzzled look.

- Crime scene?  
- Yes, that. I'm sorry, I don't know the protocol in these cases, I've never-  
- Sherlock. Please. Don't do this.

**###**

Grieving is a tricky process, John Watson knows that more than anybody else: there are infinite ways to cope with a loss, infinite ways to handle and dilute pain, but he knows that it will never go away.  
John is familiar with the wave of panic and utter sadness that overwhelms you and reminds you of what you've lost, that catches you off guard and takes your breath away; he knows how to handle the emotional impact of death, knows that life goes on anyway.  
John's father died when he was fourteen and his world changed drastically in no time: his mother went through depression and his older sister decided that alcohol was the only solution so he suddenly became an adult, the responsible one, the kid that helped the neighbors after school to scrape together some extra money.  
He didn't used to cry in front of his family or even his friends; he cried alone, at night, screaming into his pillow until exhaustion took hold of him.  
And when you decide to become an army doctor there's no choice left, you have to get used to the concept of death: you have to come to terms with the fact that it will surround you, it will become a shadow looming over you and it will eventually cripple you.  
John knew that too and tried to avoid comradeship as much as possible: he didn't want to get involved in his colleagues' and patients' life, he wasn't looking for friends, he was there to help. He wasn't even persuaded by the idea of fighting for his country, he wasn't – isn't – the "war for peace" kind of guy, he just believed in his duty as a doctor. No friends, no involvement, no harm.  
And then Sherlock Holmes happened, and when he "died" John wasn't ready: for once in his life he felt like a deer caught in the headlights; he asked himself many times what made Sherlock different from any other person in the world, and he got an answer months after the accident.  
Actually, it was Mary's answer; it was her theory on how John saw his friend as a constant, as someone who would be there the day of his death, someone invincible and somehow immortal.  
John dismissed the thought with a snort but he slowly get used to the idea; besides, it was the only one that made sense, the only one that explained that void in his heart that not even Mary was able to fill.  
The thing that John never managed to grasp was why on earth he didn't cry for his best friend's death.  
Well, he did, actually, if you count random tears and choked sobs now and then, but every time he tried to fight back, he succeeded in keeping a straight face for months and now, sitting in the back of a cab with Sherlock Holmes by his side, he's wondering why again: what if Mary's death released the pain, what if this tragedy helps him to finally cry and scream for Sherlock's death? What if all this could actually, gruesomely, help him recover?

_Did I just go into hyperventilation because of Sherlock's death? Did I just-_

- You're staring.

John jumps on his seat, eyes wide open.

- Oh, shi- I'm sorry, sorry. I was…thinking about…life?  
- Are you asking me? – Sherlock smiles.  
- No, I was. I was thinking about-  
- Even if you're right, what's the problem with it?

The doctor purses his lips and frowns, staring at Sherlock.

- I'm sorry, what?  
- The emotional dam that bursts.  
- How do y-  
- What's the harm in it? It happens, it's not uncommon. You've been through many rough patches in your life and this reaction actually makes a lot of sense. Don't over-think it John. Over-thinking is what brought you there in the first place. Nobody's judging you.

A dumbstruck look spreads across John's face: mouth slightly open, his voice stuck in his throat.

- I don't…I'm not…how?  
- Don't worry about it. You're welcome.

* * *

**Still don't know what to do with them, I'm slowly building up the customary tension for a possible slash though, just in case. If it happens - and it might happen in the next story, who knows (seriously, I don't) - , it won't be easy, I don't want it to be one of those things where John suddenly forgets about Mary and "oh, there's Sherlock, let's be together!". I want them to suffer (I'm horrible).  
**


	3. The Past and Pending

- STOP!

Sherlock shouts at the cabbie and John's heart skips a beat while the car screeches to a halt.

- What?!  
- They're here.  
- Who? We're not even there yet, wha-

John closes his mouth when he sees the lights of the police cars parked outside Mary's house casting a bluish shadow around the neighborhood; Sherlock throws an excessive amount of money at the cabbie and drags his friend out of the car.

- What now?  
- I'm calling Lestrade.  
- AND? What are you going to say? _Oh, yes, hi, John's fiancée was brutally murdered and he came to me first. Later!_ I should have called them. I'm such an idiot!

The doctor starts pacing up and down the sidewalk, until Sherlock grabs his wrist and almost twists it: John is panting and seems on the verge of a panic attack.

- What if-?  
- No, John, calm down, they won't think of you as the main suspect. Think, focus.  
- … because I was with you.  
- Exactly. Now, deep breaths, stay calm and let me-

- Let you what?

A voice coming from behind makes them both jump.

- I heard car brakes and I thought, well, this is a good time for a jog around the block. And there you are.

While Lestrade walks up to them, Sherlock straightens his back and lifts his chin slightly in the air, narrowing his eyes at him with a little smirk on his face.

- I'm impressed.  
- Not now, Sherlock. John?  
- He was with me, then came home and found Mary.

Lestrade stops in front of them with his arms crossed and a smug look on his face.

- Did I ask you?  
- He's clearly in shock and you want to waste our time with pleasantries and stupid question? What do you think happened?  
- I'm not asking as a detective inspector, I'm asking as a friend, I want to know wh-  
- No, you're asking because you're an incompetent moron who doesn't understand the basis of an-  
- Sherlock, I'm sick and tired of this, one of these days-  
- One of these days, what? You'll beg for my help as you always have?  
- I swear to you, I'm gonna-

- ENOUGH!

John's voice rumbles through the air, hitting both men's ears, and a second later a gunshot shatters the silence: Sherlock and Lestrade squat down on the ground, hands on the back of their heads.

- Enough! My girlfriend just died, you idiots! I'm not going to stand here and ask for pity and compassion, but if you expect me to be the usual glue that holds you too together, well, you're bloody wrong! For once, for once in my life I'd love to be the broken piece that needs glue, I'd love to be the one with no responsibilities whatsoever, the one who always has a last resort to hold on to, but no, God forbid I could actually mourn in piece. No, God no, my future wife dies with a knife in her chest and oh, the so joyful promise of another person who wants to ruin my life and you stand here arguing like two schoolboys, bickering on who's the toughest guy, and guess what?

John points the gun at them, as if it was his index finger.

- None of you are! Because you need each other and I'm the one who's left with nothing. Every time I think I've found a place in this world something happens. I got shot, then you die, then she dies. WHAT'S NEXT! Fucking hell Greg, could you just leave it for once? And you, you wanker, do you really think this is the right time for your "high functioning-sociopath" bullshit? Your best friend just saw his girlfriend murdered by a psycho killer, because apparently one a lifetime is not enough!, and you start a fight with the only person who can help us? What is wrong with you?

The doctor stares at Sherlock with fire in his eyes, his gun now knowingly pointing at his chest; the detective doesn't look away, he holds his burning gaze, as if to put out the fire with a look.

- John…could you please…put the gun down?

Watson looks at his own hand, fingers wrapper around the grip, knuckles white from the pressure; he clears his throat and his knees buckle a little.

- Yes…yes, I'm sorry. I don't...know what happened to me.

Lestrade takes the gun from him and nods to the guys behind them so they'll lower theirs; John looks around him, a bit lost and confused, gaping at least twenty men pointing their weapons at him: he rubs his face with his left forearm to wipe the sweat away.

- Jesus Christ…what is wrong with me?  
- It's alright, no big deal, neither of us thought you could actually pull the trigger but John…I still have to arrest you for disturbing the peace. I'm going to pass on the officer's assault because, as I said…

The detective inspector slowly turns his head to Sherlock and glares at him.

- …I was here as a friend. I won't make a scene or anything like that, I just need you to…you know. Spend a night in jail.

John lets out a shaky breath and tries to smile at him, then turns to Sherlock with a grave look on his face, before leaving with Donovan.

_I'm sorry, I don't know what I was doing, please forgive me and forget about this, help Lestrade, please…_

- Sherlock, I'm-  
- Yes, it's alright. Go. I'll take care of this.

**###**

It's almost four in the morning when Sherlock joins Lestrade outside Mary's door.

- What was that?  
- Unresolved issues, I suppose.  
- Yeah, that much was clear.

The two of them climb the stairs to John's and Mary's room, Lestrade quickly leading the way with Sherlock following right behind him; when the detective inspector stops right outside the bedroom and holds his right hand in front of Sherlock, the latter grows visibly impatient.

- Stop. Nobody went in there except me. I was waiting for you and your superpowers. BUT! I'm going to need a full report on this. I want you to be thorough and professional; nobody else is going to contaminate the scene. You'll be the only one allowed in there, no forensics team, no Anderson, no nothing. Just you. I need you to wear the proper gear for that, you need a camera and you won't get out until I say it's okay for you to go. Are we clear?

Sherlock nods, both amazed and annoyed at new opportunity.

- Alright then. Suit yourself.

* * *

**As you may have noticed, I adore John Watson, I really like writing his parts – especially the rancorous rants – and, most of all, I'm helplessly in love with Martin Freeman. While I enjoy the idea of a (temporarily) troubled Watson, I don't want him to be a weak man, someone who finds solace exclusively in Sherlock's presence. Yes, I love them together, I think they're the perfect match for each other, but I hate the idea of a morbid and confining relationship. That's it, just wanted to point that out. Thanks for reviewing, by the way! Hi, I'm 28 and I squeak with joy every time you do.**


	4. Lotus

The first time Sherlock barged into John's room was three months after their first meeting: it was early in the morning and Lestrade called from Scotland Yard - ordering him to get his "pretentious arse" over there - so the detective rushed up the stairs, two steps at a time, and in a couple of seconds the bedroom door flung open, smashing against the wall. John heard him, so he wasn't caught off guard, but he didn't look at Sherlock at first, he just went on with his usual morning routine. "You're awake", Sherlock said, while the doctor neatly folded the sheets and the duvet of his bed, smiling: "I know, I'm sorry to disappoint you. By the way, if you're going to do that again", John pointed at the door, "you'll have to face the consequences of a soldier with PTSD and a gun. Just saying. Shall we?". With a boyish smile and a pat on Sherlock's shoulder, John went for the door and left a speechless detective in the middle of his room.

Right now, standing in the middle of the one he shared with Mary, Sherlock remembered where John used to sleep and smiled: when they lived together the doctor's room was simple and bare but still cozy and warm - probably because of the sun exposure –, and most of all it screamed his name.  
But this room. Well, this one has nothing to do with John Watson.  
It's not the furniture, which is quite elegant and sober actually, and it's not even the color - pastel tones of light blue and grey -, it's just that nothing, nothing, here belongs to John Watson: this room belongs to Mary and John was just borrowing space.

For some reason the dead body lying on the bed next to him isn't Sherlock's main concern; he slowly walks around the room, bigger than average, with wood-floor and light-grey painted walls, a king-sized bed, an antique wardrobe opposite with a sky-blue carpet in the middle: at his left a dresser with a matching mirror above, at his right a Victorian sash window facing the street.  
The detective's gloved hands touch every available surface, checking every object inside and out: Mary was a very tidy and organized woman, Sherlock already noticed the first time she met her, looking at the way she held John's hand.  
He opens the first drawer of the dresser and smiles: her knickers lined up in a precise order - color, material, shape -, as well as socks and stockings; a small part of the drawer is taken up by little boxes full of make-up, organized by shades and nuances.  
Sherlock runs his fingertips along the back of the drawer, when he finally finds the key taped to it, the one that opens the white jewel box placed right under the mirror: once again, everything has its order and the jewelry is divided by type and value.  
The detective then turns to look at the bedside table, where a misplaced lipstick catches his attention: he kneels beside the bed and brushes his thumb over Mary's lower lip.

_Clean_.

He stands up and finally looks down at the lifeless body in front of him.

_Single stab wound, clean and precise. Remnants of the note's paper around it. White shirt, bare and crossed legs. Forced into place, probably not during post-mortem._

Sherlock takes her hands in his, looking for signs of fight, then lifts Mary's head and holds it in his hands, fingers searching for wounds.

_Nothing. No fight, no bumps, no blood. Drugged. _

Before inspecting the body, Sherlock suddenly remembers that this time he _is_ the forensics team, he'll do the report, he's responsible for John's mental health: he grabs the camera, snapping as many photos as humanly possible, and once he's done, once his brain tells him that 765 photos of the room and 234 of the body are enough, he slowly moves Mary, who's showing signs of an early rigor mortis: while shifting her legs something inside his brain clicks and he remembers.

_Yoga. Lotus position._

The detective drags his hands up and down Mary's body looking for pinpricks or bruises: nothing. He starts to sweat, impatience and resignation painted on his face, and for a second he shows a hint of respect for Anderson's job, quickly gone once he realizes that the pressure he's feeling is because of who's lying in front of him, not the job itself.

_Anderson is still an imbecile after all._

Sherlock decides to take a moment, sliding down the mask and taking a deep breath, when a sharp scent hits him: he widens his eyes with anticipation and follows it like a sniffer dog, smelling clothes, curtains, the carpet, opening drawers and shutters until there's only one thing left. He bends over the body, leaning with both hands at the side of it, until his nose is inches away from Mary's neck.

_Fruity but strong. Sweet. Earthy. Skin is moisturized and not dry. Cream not perfume._

So close to the body, Sherlock finally sees what's been hiding under the pillow.

_An iPod? Dead batteries. John told me he heard muffled but loud music from outside the room. She was wearing earphones. It must have moved once he…_

Sherlock swallows and runs his fingers over the creased fabric of the pillow, before striding out of the room and bumping into Lestrade, who's pacing right outside of it.

- Oi! I told you to wait for my permission!  
- I'm done here, call forensics, but not Anderson. Call Molly.

The consulting detective undresses as fast as he can, throwing the coveralls at Lestrade and trying to divert the DI's attention from his hands.

- You can't be done with this! There are samples to collect, and-  
- Do we know each other? Do you know who I am?

Sherlock stops, staring angrily at Lestrade, who presses his lips together and raises his arms, surrendering.

- Alright, alright. Molly Hooper, then.  
- Yes. And I need to go.  
- Why?

Sherlock just glares at him and runs down the stairs, following his intuitions. The kitchen is obviously clean, almost immaculate; the sound of the water slowly dripping from the tap fills the room and his eyes immediately focus on two washed mugs placed on the dish rack beside the sink. The detective then walks up to the laundry room and straight to the pile of clothes in the basket, with a worn-out sweatshirt on top of it that he quickly brings up to his nose, inhaling.

_Strawberry shampoo. Chamomile tea. Pungent smells. She was wearing this before she died._

He runs his hand over the fabric until it meets something gluey and sticky: he rubs his index finger over his thumb and then licks it.

_…honey?_

- Are you still here?

Lestrade's voice makes him jump a little.

- No, I'm clearly a hologram. Is this the "sneak-up-on-the-only-person-who-knows-what-he's-doing" day?  
- Christ, Sherlock, can you behave for once? Not for me, I don't care, we can go on forever if you like, just… do it for John. I know you care and I know you understand the gravity of the situation, so please, even if I ask stupid questions just…

Lestrade waves his hands in the air.

- …let go. And what exactly are you doing here, by the way?  
- What do you think I'm do-…. I'll explain later. I have to go.  
- Right, yes. Fine.

He walks to the door and then turns to Lestrade, who's already climbing the stairs back to the first floor again.

- I just…uhm…thank you? For that.

Sherlock nods toward the bedroom and Lestrade smiles.

- Yeah mate, don't mention it. It was the least I could do.

With a smirk and a flourish of his coat he walks away, trotting down the stairs leading to the street, while Lestrade chuckles to himself.

- And the caped crusader flies away again.

* * *

**You do remember that english isn't my first language, right? And that - once again - this is not beta'd? So sorry for any mistakes or typos, the grammar nazi inside of me is crying.**


	5. Talk

When Sherlock Holmes enters Lestrade's division at Scotland Yard everybody hears him: his pace, the rhythmic sounds of his walking, the long strides, the way his steps make the desks vibrate. It's morning by now, and when Donovan sees him she nods towards Greg's office and the consulting detective answers her with a snort: he carefully opens the door to find a sleeping – and snoring – Watson at Lestrade's desk, his arms crossed and his head hanging between his shoulders. Sherlock smiles and tiptoes his way to the small couch at the other side of the room; he stares at the doctor, pondering on how to approach this case, how to handle the fact that this time John is involved, that _he_ is the family member that Sherlock usually harass to find the truth.  
Strangely enough, the sight of his sound asleep friend and his snoring makes his eyelids heavy: he scrubs his face and rubs his eyes but soon he finds himself leaning his head back and he doesn't fight it.

Two hours later Sherlock awakes by the sound of someone sighing and flopping down on the couch next to him: he opens his right eye and sees John with a small smile on his face.

- Sleeping? On a case? Should I be insulted? Terrified?  
- On the contrary, my dear Watson – his sleepy voice turning into a chuckle – you should be proud. All these years, all those pleading looks and lectures about the importance of sleeping, when all it takes is hearing you snore like freight train.  
- I don't!  
- Leave it John; I think the whole building heard you.

John smiles and leans back on the couch, closing his eyes again.

- Should I ask?  
- Not yet. And why are you here?  
- Oh, you know, Greg is a friend and a dead girlfriend is a get out of jail free card.

Sherlock slowly turns his head and looks at him with a worried look.

- Oh, Christ, sorry, I mean, don't worry, I tend to do that when something like this happen. I know it's awful, but it's…my way to cope. It happened even when you…you know. _That_.

The detective eyes soften and then he licks his dry lips.

_Was I snoring too?_

- So…how are you?  
- Sherlock…  
- I know, it's a stupid question, I just don't know how to…run our friendship in this case.

John immediately tilts his head back and laughs, slapping his left hand on his knee.

- What? What did you find so amusing this time? – Sherlock frowns.  
- "Run our friendship"? It's not a business Sherlock! And you really don't have to worry, I know you, there's no need to do that, you're helping me by doing your job.  
- But I want to know how you're doing.

The doctor looks at him and his unintentional puppy eyes; his attempt at being an "ordinary" friend goes straight to his heart and he immediately feels guilty.

- You really want to know?  
- Seriously, what is wrong with you people today, do you not know me? I don't ask questions if I don't care about the answer. If I ask I want to know. It might be a stupid question, how to deal with emotions it's not my forte, I give you that, but it's a legitimate inquiry nevertheless.  
- Alright, calm down, I get it. … I'm…not good, but how I'm feeling now it's not the problem anyway. Until we find who's responsible I'll be living in a bubble. I know what happened, I know she's not here anymore, the pain is still unbearable at times, but looking for a killer keeps my mind busy. You have to ask me again once we're done with this, when there will be someone to blame, because that…that will be a problem.

Sherlock nods and lowers his eyes.

- You get it?  
- Yes, John, I do. I am a human being, not a machine. And statistically, a person my age should be familiar with grieve and loss.  
- Are you?  
- Yes.

An awkward silence falls between the two of them: just like Sherlock has trouble handling emotions, John has trouble handling an emotional Sherlock.

- Like, uhm, a friend? A member of your family?  
- My grandfather.  
- …ah.

The doctor is in a whole new territory, it almost feels like putting on a red suit and then getting stuck inside in a bullfighting arena. What now?

- My paternal grandfather.

Sherlock shifts on his seat, feeling rightly under scrutiny: his palms are sweating and he crosses his legs, still licking his lips and avoiding John's gaze.

- Water. I need water.

John stands up and fetches him a bottle of water from Greg's minibar, hidden under the desk.

- Sherlock, seriously, you don't have to do this, I trust your word, I know you understand me there's no need for a confession.  
- He has a minibar in his office?  
- Exactly, let's discuss Lestrade's habits; deduce him from the contents of his minibar!

The detective purses his lips, tempted with the prospect of a new diversion, but the need to reassure John and connect with him – now that he can – is stronger.

- No, it's alright John. I'm fine.

John flops down on the couch again, leaning against the armrest and stretching his arm along the back of the couch.

- So...what happened?  
- We were very close. We bonded over our status of outcasts of the family. When I was eight I was already different from them. My father was despotic and obsessed with appearances, my mother was submissive and fearful; Mycroft was the perfect son and they were both madly in love with him. And then there was me. I was the one who sneaked out from the window in the middle of the night, when I couldn't sleep because I was wondering how many fishes in the pond it would take to cover the distance from the kitchen to my room.  
- What?!  
- We had a pond.  
- Yeah, that's not what I meant with that.  
- And I did, one night I went to the pond, dive in and caught as many fishes as I could. In no time there was a line of dead fishes starting from the fridge and going up the stairs. They found me the next morning, asleep, leaning against my bedroom door.

John presses his lips together and clenches his hands into fists, trying to suppress a laughter and the urgent need to hug that stupid genius in front of him.

- And what did they do?  
- You don't want to know how many?  
- What?  
- Fishes!  
- Oh Jes-, yeah, Sherlock, how many?  
- 274. I wasn't satisfied though, because then I realized there were at least four different species and that the experiment might have another outcome under various parameters. But my parents weren't…happy, let's just leave it at that. So they sent me to my grandfather's house. Because, hey, our son is a nutter and that old man is a nutter too.  
- I'm sorry, Sherlock.  
- No, don't be. It was the best time of my life. He taught me how to fence and fight. We talked in Italian and French. We used to discuss history at night and he brought me my first chemistry set. He was…brilliant. He was a perfect union of intellectual superiority and charisma. Everybody loved him and I worshiped him. The best year of my life, until my parents remembered they had another child and wanted me back but I couldn't live there anymore. I felt in prison, constricted, helplessly rotting in my room.

John is completely mesmerized by how much Sherlock is opening up to him, especially knowing that it can all end in a moment, all it takes is a text or a phone call or just someone looking for Lestrade and opening the door for a second. Fear, is what John is feeling right now, fear of this human and emotional side slipping away from his hands any time now.

- What happened next?  
- I grew up. And Mycroft told me about my grandfather past, hoping to destroy his reputation. Today, I think he was just jealous but back then it's what started our rivalry.  
- Did he succeed?  
- No. His idea of a horrible and secretive past was him having another family in Venice. He fought in World War II and you know how it was then. Many soldiers had affairs and illegitimate children and I always thought my grandfather was honorable, for being a man of his word and supporting them even if he came back here.  
- And you never saw him again?  
- Oh, yes, I did. When I was fourteen my grandmother died so he returned to Venice and lived there until he passed away too. I basically spent there all my summer and winter holidays, with him and what was left of his family, playing the violin and running around the _calle_.  
- That must be...all kinds of beautiful. So you actually speak Italian? Say something!  
- Oh, please, John, don't be a commoner.  
- Come on! Say something in Italian!  
- No! There, I said it. No means no, even in Italian.  
- Please? Say something in Italian?  
- Oh, for God's sake, this is ridiculous.

Sherlock growls but surrenders

-_ Dimmi qualcosa in italiano.  
_- See, was it difficult? What was that?  
- "Say something in Italian".  
- Figures.  
- Are we done?  
- Yes, I'm sorry, go on.  
- There's nothing more to say. He was like a father to me and he had the courtesy of dying the last summer I went there. So, there. My father died when I was nineteen. My biological father died eight years ago and I didn't even go to his funeral. My mother secretly hates me for this, Mycroft openly hates me for this, I blatantly couldn't care less. I know how it feels like, I know everything there is to know about grieve and death. I know how you feel and I'm sorry. I really am.

John is speechless, and hopes to God that single tear sliding down his cheek goes unnoticed.

- I'm…sorry.  
- Don't be ridiculous. It's been years now and I'm fine.  
- Right, of course you are.

John arm is still stretched along the back of the couch, his hand right behind Sherlock's neck; he carelessly brushes the curls at his nape for a couple of seconds and then stands up.

- Hungry?  
- No, but I have a feeling you'll never stop nagging about it, so yes, starving.


	6. Aida

**Flashback ahead!**

* * *

Calle Varisco is the narrowest street in Venice and Sherlock Holmes favourite place: just 21 inches wide and 65 feet long, it was the perfect spot to hide and think. Spending summers and winters holidays with his grandfather meant not having restrictions of any kind, so the future consulting detective could go out at night and come back the morning after without someone shouting at him: usually, he would storm out after dinner with his grandfather telling him to have fun and be careful, to return home at breakfast with the old man asking if he discovered something new. A painting, a street, a music store, a scary mask, the odd shape of a window, a place with the "best Espresso in town", a guy who introduced him to absinthe, a new scarf found at Rialto's Market, a restaurant owner who taught him the correct recipe for pasta and beans or just a strange-looking pigeon, everything caught the boy's attention.

Sherlock was sixteen when he found out about Calle Varisco: it was a very hot summer morning, the humidity was unbearable and the strong smell of the back alleys was clouding his brain; he was strolling alone – as usual – not even looking at where he was going, his gaze focused on his feet, when suddenly it all went dark.  
He lifted his chin and found himself trapped between two brick walls: he immediately remembered about his acute claustrophobia, the urgent need to run away and take deep breaths on a boat in the middle of the sea was blinding him, but he didn't move.  
Instead, he leaned back and closed his eyes, discovering a whole new world: ironically, the darkness of the alley was shedding a bright light inside his brain and after a while the rooms of his mind palace started to spring up in his mind for the first time.  
From that moment on, Sherlock spent at least two hours a day trapped inside that little calle, usually at night, to avoid tourists and melt into darkness.

Two years later, during a cold and dark winter evening, Sherlock's wandering in his mind palace was brutally interrupted by someone bumping into him.

- Oh, sh-…mi scusi, non l'avevo vista!

They couldn't see each other in the dark so the stranger's tentative hands reached Sherlock's arm and instinctively squeezed it.

- Mi scusi.  
- You're American.  
- What-… yes, I am. I'm so sorry, it's so dark in here, I didn't see you. What do we do know?

The girlie chuckle that followed echoed between the walls and Sherlock frowned, confused.

- Move?  
- I'm…yes, yes, I'm going, I'll find another way to get to…well, my house. Again, so sorry.

Sherlock sighed and surrendered to good manners, that ones that his grandfather taught him to use with women, the ones he will soon forget and ignore.

- No, wait…it's me, it's my fault. Please.

He turned his back and led the way out of the little street, the woman following right behind him.

- There. All clear.  
- Thanks…uhm?  
- Sherlock.  
- Aida. Hoffman.  
- Like the opera?  
- Yeah, I know, sounds weird. My mother is Italian, my father is American.

The girl smiled as they shook hands, then he quickly turned without saying a word, disappearing into the darkness again.

A few days later, on a freezing morning, Sherlock was sitting on the steps of a little bridge called Ponte delle Do Spade; he had two open books in front of him, placed on his knees: Machiavelli's Prince and Hobbes' Leviathan, both full of notes, scribbles and post-its.  
To a careless passerby he looked like one of the many students trying to brush up for an early test; nobody could suspect that Sherlock was in fact improvising a deep philosophic analysis in his mind, comparing the two masterpieces of political science. For fun. And so deeply lost in his thoughts that he didn't realize he was muttering to himself, something about criminal virtues and criminal causes.  
Aida was running late and as she passed by a deep, rich and somehow familiar voice talking in Latin reached her ears; she stopped and turned back, wondering if that mop of dark curly hair bowed over a book was actually the same guy she met two days before.  
She walked to him, bending over his shoulder.

- Bellum omnium contra omnes.

Sherlock jumped and turned to her: a pair of bright green eyes staring at him.

- What?!  
- Hobbes. My favorite – she pointed at the book.  
- Yes, well. Thanks for letting me know.  
- Are you Sherlock? – she smiled.  
- And who are you?

He looked at her, annoyed and confused, glancing at his books every two seconds.

- Aida. We met the other day. Well, more like night.

Nothing. Sherlock had that look of utter impatience that later on John Watson would find both irritating and terrifying.

- I bumped into you?

Still nothing. He shook his head slightly and raised his eyebrows._ Is this supposed to mean something to me?_

- …Calle Varisco?  
- Ah, yes. _You_.  
- Yes, me.

Aida was a very tall and lean twenty-three year old with long ash-blonde hair always gathered up in a bun, a beautiful girl who happened to have a favourite philosopher; Sherlock was obviously immune to her sophisticated beauty and didn't know a thing about flirting. He narrowed his eyes at her.

- Your nose.  
- What about it?

She brought her hand to her face, blushing.

- You don't like it. You think it's big and disproportionate to your facial features.  
- What…how?  
- Oh, nothing, it's what I do. I read people. It's annoying, and I'm rude, don't bother, I already know.  
- Well…yes, you are, but you're also right. How did you do it?  
- Those aren't corrective lenses. You think that wearing glasses will divert people's attention from your nose.  
- That's-  
- It doesn't work like that and you shouldn't be ashamed about it. It suits you.

With that, Sherlock returned to his book and left a blushing Aida gaping at him.

- Uhm…yeah. Thanks?  
- It wasn't a compliment. I was just stating a fact.

He didn't look at her but she smiled and stood there in silence; when she realized Sherlock wasn't up for small talk, Aida straightened her coat and broke the awkward silence.

- Well. I'd better go. Do you know where I can find the department of Criminology?

* * *

**Does this sounds plausible as Sherlock's past? I hope it does. Anyway, you should be able to find photos of the calle, the bridge and market of Rialto on Google. Just to have a visual aid of what I'm talking about. Brace yourself: more flashback to come!**


	7. A Lack of Understanding

Sherlock turned his head slowly and stared at her with piercing eyes. Aida was blushing again; her glasses were quickly tucked away and her sweaty palms hidden in her coat pockets.

- You're studying Criminology?  
- Yes. I'm...did I said something wrong?

He stood up and gathered his things under his right arm.

- On the contrary. Let me walk with you, I know exactly where it is.

Sherlock's idea of walking with someone was him leading the way with an excited and worried Aida trotting after him, until they found themselves right under the department; the future consulting detective stayed silent the entire time so Aida was about to thank him and walk away, slightly offended, when Sherlock grabbed her wrist and made her turn towards him with a push. Aida gaped at him but didn't wince.

- Why Criminology?  
- Well. My father is a detective. He is passionate about his job, some would say too much, but he isn't…creepy or anything like that. He just enjoys the process. Anyway, I grew up with serial killers' stories and crime scene investigation. I think it was destiny.

She smiled and looked up at him.

- There's no such thing. You either take control of your life or you lay in bed waiting for things to happen until one of those is death.  
- And I took control. What about you?

Sherlock loosened his grip on her wrist and took a step back.

- I'm more of a chemistry enthusiast.  
- So you're studying chemistry?  
- Not yet.

Aida's face scrunched in confusion and then smiled again, this time meeting a small smirk on his face.

- Well, I'm late. Nice to meet you again, Sherlock.  
- Yes, of course.

Sherlock looked around him and then – with his hand still in his coat pocket - pointed left, leaving without saying a word. Aida was probably the first person to fall for Sherlock's strange charm and brusque behavior; after all, he was an eighteen year old boy, tall and gangly, a loner with too much time on his hands, never accustomed to the idea of someone being interested in him or what he was.  
He didn't expect people to grasp the concept of a mind palace, or understand that useless data were discarded without a second thought, no matter how important those information were to other people. He never had met someone whose opinions mattered to him, someone to share his world with, someone willing to overlook his rudeness in favor of a shared appetite for knowledge, so how was he supposed to know how to recognize selfless and genuine interest?  
Granted, Aida was fascinated by his brain and intellect as well as his physical appearance – unruly dark curls framed his perfectly harmonious features, plump lips and straight nose, light green eyes that eventually changed color to a crystal-clear light blue, ceramic-like skin and small waist, long legs and fingers that he absent-mindedly cracked every ten minutes, all this surrounded by an aura of confidence and pride that everybody loved to hate – but most of all, she was mesmerized by the sheer curiosity of his, something that could match hers.

For days after their last encounter, Aida was completely taken with the thought of running into him again, and Sherlock was…well, Sherlock, so he couldn't care less about_ whats-her-name_, until he decided to book a private guide to take him through the Peggy Guggenheim Collection.  
Sherlock was sitting on the steps in front of the entrance, when someone behind him cleared his throat.

- Do we always have to meet like this?

He turned around and frowned.

- Criminology?  
- Yes – she giggled – that's me. Criminology.

Sherlock stood up and wiped his trousers.

- What are you doing here?  
- What are _you_ doing here. I'm working. I'm waiting for someone who booked a private tour.  
- Uhm… that would be me. – he sneered and stared at his feet, almost embarrassed.

Aida tried to control her voice but a sudden high-pitched tone revealed way too much excitement.

- Excellent! – she clapped her hands together, smiling.

Even if he was just eighteen, Sherlock was already uncomfortable admitting he wasn't an expert at something, and art was _that_ something; not that he wasn't interested, he had an unexpected soft spot for impressionism, something that clashed with his sharp and prickly personality, but other than that he wasn't what you would call and expert or even an art lover. She linked her right arm with his left and Sherlock look at her, startled, causing Aida to burst into laughter.

- Relax. I'm not going to kill you!

They walked arm in arm for a while, Aida pointing at details and Sherlock leaning too close to the paintings, much to her amusement: the rectilinear and curvilinear patterns of Picasso and the fluid shapes of Dalì witnessed what she would have called a date, and what Sherlock would dismissed as an art lecture with inappropriate touching. She gave his arm a little tug and they stopped to stand in front of a painting.

- This is Duchamp, Sad Young Man on a Train.  
- Sounds…dull.  
- Yes, it does, especially right after Dalì. But it's not. Duchamp wanted to convey two types of movement: that of the train and that of the lurching subject itself, smoking. Two parallel movements corresponding to each other. _Jeunne homme triste dans un train_. Did you hear the-  
- …alliteration?  
- Exactly. Like…Hoffman and Holmes.

She let his arm go and crossed hers, smiling at him, who was grimacing at the comparison.

- It's a figure of speech that Duchamp wanted to use to emphasize the parallel movements with the same constrained direction: the train on its rail and the young man walking down the corridor.  
- But I see nothing in the painting that suggests sadness or any particular emotional state for that matter. Was he _triste_ because it goes well with _train_?  
- Why did you have to ruin everything with logic and rationalization?  
- Because we live in the real world and not inside a painter's mind?

She shook her head and clasped her hands behind her back before she resumed walking; this time Sherlock followed.

Time passed slowly for Sherlock and too fast for Aida and when the tour came to an end it was already time for both of them to go home; they (she) decided to take the waterbus back to the center of the City, where they (he) would part their ways. Sherlock hoped to shake her presence off by standing alone on the deck, between freezing wind and random splashes of cold water, but she didn't take the hint and followed him outside.

- So why the sudden interest in art?  
- An interest in art can't be sudden.

Sherlock tried to shield himself from the wind by turning his coat collar up, still not looking at her and instead focusing his gaze on the flickering lights of the Laguna.

- Who's your favorite then?  
- Monet.  
- Seriously?

He snapped his head towards her with a stern look.

- Why? Should I ask permission to enjoy impressionism?  
- No, no, it's just…weird for someone like you. I thought you'd be more of a… German expressionism kind of guy.  
- …right.

Sherlock dropped the discussion, even though the words "someone like you" still resounded in his head.

- Can't blame you, though. Impressionist had a…ravishing way of looking at the world. Reality seen through sensations. The subjects are real but the representations of them are so subjective and personal. Good choice.

Aida smiled and sensed that Sherlock was uncomfortable so she turned and started to walk away from him.

- …my grandmother liked French impressionist. My grandparents lived in a huge mansion and she had a room entirely dedicated to Monet's painting of lotus flowers and water lilies. She was obsessed. In a good way, I guess.

Sherlock took a seat and crossed his legs, while Aida noticed the cigarette in his hand for the first time; he brought it to his slightly parted lips, his cheeks hollowing as he drew in one long, deep drag and then he slowly blew out a stream of smoke. She followed his fluids movements, finding the scene extremely endearing and strangely lewd; the young woman sat next to him, licking her lips a couple of time before answering.

- So you ended up sharing the same passion?  
- More or less. The entire house smelled like lotus, she smelled like lotus, her clothes smelled like lotus. So one time I asked and I was suddenly thrown in a vortex of pastel colours, rapid and small brush strokes, deception of light and _en plein air_,_ déjeuner sur l'herbe_ and _Grenouillère_.

She smiled at the mocking emphasis Sherlock used while speaking French and her eyes flicked back at his mouth, while he toyed with the cigarette in his hand.

- …the thing I love most about Italy is the fact that people don't judge you if you smoke. What's wrong with it? If I'm not blowing smoke in your face then why look at me like I'm committing genocide? I'm not bothering you because you get pissed every night at the pub with your mates, it's your choice, you do whatever you want with your body and your liver, why can't I with my lungs? Right?

He turned and caught her still gazing at his lips so she blushed and looked away, mumbling something and fidgeting with her ring. Sherlock smirked and stared so Aida could feel his eyes burning her skin: she looked back and in a second her lips tentatively brushed his. The future consulting detective closed his eyes and kissed back but remained still, almost indifferent, even when she slid her tongue across his lower lip and tangled her hand in his curls.  
Sherlock then tilted his head to the side and deepened the kiss while she answered with a moan, until he placed a hand on her shoulder, pushing her away; with red cheeks and ragged breathing, Aida stared at him, surprised and confused.

- Why? – she whimpered.  
- It was enough.  
- …enough what?  
- The experiment.  
- The ex-…the what?

She stood up and looked around her, shifting on her feet.

- I just wanted to understand the mechanics of the kissing process.  
-"The kissing process"? What are you talking about?  
- What part of it don't you understand?  
- The part where you kissed back!  
- Yes, as I said, I wanted to experiment but unfortunately it couldn't be one-sided for a successful outcome.  
- Unfor…unfortunately?  
- Oh, yes, I'm sorry. Not a big fan.

Aida's eyes narrowed at him while her nostrils widened with rage at the sight of Sherlock coolness and nonchalance.

- Are you fucking kidding me?  
- No. Also, I'd like a feedback if you don't mind. Although the moaning should be enough.

She groaned and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and then against her temples.

- You bastard! I feel so humiliated, so…Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you? What kind of freak would do that? Gosh! What is your problem?  
- The problem?  
- Oh, you don't see the problem in what you just did? You stick your tongue in someone else's throat as an experiment and you can't see why this is bothering me?

Piazza San Marco was getting closer and closer so Sherlock stood up and made his way toward the exit, while a few people gathered outside as well; Aida came to stand right next to him and grabbed the lapels of his coat, clenching her jaw.

- You liked it so I don't see the problem. You enjoyed it.  
- Emotional investment, Sherlock. – she whispered between her teeth.  
- You don't even know me, Aida.  
- You selfish asshole. You're dead inside and you're gonna pay for this. Years of solitude and misery, that's what will happen to you. People will despise you, you'll be alone and miserable.  
- Yes, you said that.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and wriggled his way out of her strong grip; Aida grabbed his wrist and pulled him down to her, their faces just inches apart.

- You will pay for this.  
- All this rage for a kiss? Or it's the fact that an eighteen year old boy humiliated you with a damn good kiss at his first try? A bit excessive, don't you think? We just met. Have some dignity.

Sherlock was getting restless so the wicked side of him took over; she bit her lower lip and twisted his wrist, causing him to stifle a cry of pain.

- We're done.  
- Impossible. We didn't even begin, there's nothing to end here.

Aida shoved him against the banister and took a few step back, never breaking eye-contact; she grinned and for the first time since their first meeting Sherlock saw something malicious in her eyes.

- We'll see.

* * *

**Well, that escalated quickly. I desperately need feedbacks. The moaning isn't enough (_badum-tsssh!_). And, you know, the usual: forgive me for any mistakes or grammar atrocities here and there.**


	8. Stone Cold Crazy

- That's a tad excessive, don't you think?

Sherlock briskly followed Aida from the dock to the center of San Marco, swarmed with people; she quickened the pace, trying to fade into the crowd and under the dim lights of the lampposts, while he followed behind, weaving through the people. They soon found themselves in a darkened and silent alley, so Sherlock seized the opportunity.

- I don't see what the problem is. Don't get me wrong, I really don't care if you're mad at me, I'm just…curious.

Aida stopped and clenched her fists, still not looking at him.

- I mean, I get it, you like me, I tricked you into kissing me, and then I-

She turned and pounced on him like a wild beast on his prey: a knee between Sherlock's thighs, her left forearm pressed against his throat and the right hand tightened around his left wrist. Sherlock could easily reverse the situation, but his curiosity overcame instinct once again.

- You don't get it. – she whispered in his ear.  
- The humiliation? Oh no, I get that.

Aida shifted her arm slightly, pushing his chin up and biting his neck but – despite Sherlock's hiss - nothing in her moves was even remotely sexual.

- The fact that an eighteen year old boy just humiliated you at you most vulnerable must be upsetting for you.

She breathed out a nervous laugh and lifted her knee a bit more.

- Apparently not the first time, am I right? You're quite a case study, I give you that. Electra complex, body acceptance, I'd say slightly bipolar judging by your overreaction. Are you on antidepressants?

His eyes narrowed, her jaw tightened before smiling sardonically; she loosened the grip on him and backed off.

- Let me guess. You stand on the thin line between crime solving and crime committing.

Sherlock straightened himself against the wall and took a step towards her, smiling back.

- You grew up with serial killers stories. A little kid, especially a girl, would be frightened or disturbed, not fascinated as you were. You faked interest at first, probably because you wanted your father's attention and you figured it out it was the only way to get it but then you started to enjoy it and that scared you but didn't stop you. When you grew up you thought, well, if you can't beat them join them so you decided it'd be a good idea to become like your father, maybe this inexplicable fascination could lead you to something good. But when something like this happens this hidden side of you suddenly gains the upper hand and the shy and fearful little girl vanishes to make room for this overconfident femme fatale. But then again, what do I know? One can only hope.

The two of them were inches apart, standing right under a flickering shop sign; Sherlock's hand was wrapped around her neck while she glared at him, licking her lips.

- And you like this. Your pupils are dilated. You're enjoying yourself too. You realized there's more so everything changed.  
- Attraction isn't strictly physical.  
- But you still feel attracted to a potential criminal.  
- No.

He pushed her gently against the wall, pinning her wrist behind her back.

- I'm attracted by the puzzle.  
- I'm flattered.  
- Don't be.  
- Either you kiss me or you let me go.  
- There's no point in kissing.  
- I'm not giving you the satisfaction of solving the mystery.

When Sherlock let her go she smirked at him and hooked her finger around his belt, pulling him closer so he had to hold himself with his hands on the wall behind her.

- So why aren't you curious about sex?  
- What makes you think I'm a virgin?

Aida raised her eyebrows at him and chuckled.

- You paid a prostitute.  
- Technically I didn't. My grandfather did, when I was sixteen. Sex is granted but the kissing is off-limits.  
- Poor thing.

For a second, Sherlock thought about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hide: her voice was sarcastic but her eyes were full of sadness and compassion, the two sides of her fighting against each other.

- Don't pity me, it was a high-class prostitute and my grandfather was dead against it. He only paid for it because he feared my stubbornness.  
- How was it?  
- Biologically fine, mentally excruciating. Are we done?  
- Sore point?  
- Worthless.

He teased her by running his thumb along her lower lip.

- But you kissed me and you're useless to me now. You're right. We are done. Should I wait for your revenge?  
- Are you hoping for one?  
- You tell me.

She smiled and pursed her lips.

- There's no fun in telling you now. Let's just say you may have forced me to cross that thin line a bit. One can only hope, right?

Aida wrapped her hand around his wrist once again, this time slowly and gently, before turning his palm up and tracing the blue vein beneath with her nails. She smiled at him and walked away.

* * *

**Whoa. Since I'm writing one chapter at a time without a plan whatsoever, nothing is carved in stone yet and I still don't know about the slash thing. I feel like I should but I don't know if I could. **


	9. In The Cold Light Of Morning

It's three in the morning when John limps his way down the stairs: his nightmares are back, not as bad as they were years ago but enough to keep him awake most of the nights, forcing him to random naps during the day. Once in the dark and cold kitchen, he leans against the counter, thumping his head on the shelf above the kettle.

- Nightmares are back?  
- Yes. – John sighs.

The doctor isn't startled by Sherlock's voice coming from the couch: since Mary's death, two weeks ago, John gotten into the habit of wander around the flat at night and Sherlock never questioned him, until now.

- What can I do for you?  
- You can start by telling me what you've gathered so far.  
- Are you sure you want to know?

John walks to the living room with a mug of steaming tea in his hand and flops down on the detective's chair.

- I can't live like this.

Sherlock stands up and walks to the desk, his blue dressing gown flowing around him while he turns and hands John a thick folder.

- Toxicology report. Highly dosage of Xylazine. It's a powerful sedative, usually given to horses and combined with atropine to reduce the possible fatal effects to the heart. There are no formal records about the consequences that it might have on a human heart, but you can imagine. On animals it may cause bradycardia and if not treated it can easily lead to death.

John is flipping through the pages, his right hand pressed against his mouth.

- The stabbing didn't kill her, it was post-mortem, the wound was fairly clean and there wasn't that much blood around it.

Sherlock points to the folder in John's hand and sighs.

- _That_ killed her. And I'm certain she even used a muscle relaxant before injecting the drug.  
- She?  
- Yes. About that, John…  
- What? What's wrong?  
- I think she knew the killer. There's no signs of forced entry, no signs of struggle and most of all there were two clean mugs on the sink. I gave them to Molly, hoping to find traces of DNA but they were practically sterilized. Nothing.

The doctor stands up and starts pacing around the room.

- What about her friends?  
- No, no, that's impossible. I knew them, and it makes no sense. The killer wanted to get to you and they know nothing about you. There's no motive and they all had an alibi. She was supposed to have dinner with them but she decided to stay home, and wait for…me to come home. She hadn't that many friends and the one she had were all in the same place. No, that's impossible.

He stops in the middle of the room: his voice started cracking at the end and he gulps loudly, pressing his palms against his eyes; Sherlock gets closer to him, placing a hand on the his shoulder and squeezing lightly.

- We can do this another time, there's no rush. You need to rest.

John stays still for a couple of minutes, his heart pulsing in his throat and ears, then he slip out of Sherlock's grip and walks to the fridge, pushing it to the side and crouching down to grab something behind it.

- Are those-?  
- Yes. Lighter, please.

Sherlock gapes at him, a little confused but with a smuggish look on his face.

- Seriously?  
- Yes, lighter. _Now_.

John opens the packet and takes out a cigarette, handing it to Sherlock.

- Light it.  
- Why?  
- I don't like the first drag. Take a couple and then give it to me.

Sherlock smiles and brings the cigarette to his mouth: the flame lights up the darkness casting a bright glow on the detective's face for a second. He breathes out the smoke from his mouth, dropping his head back with a sigh.

- You do realize what this means, right?  
- Yeah, I hope you're happy.  
- I surely am.

John snatches the cigarette from Sherlock's hand and takes a deep and long drag, closing his eyes.

- I didn't know you smoke.  
- The Great Sherlock Holmes missed a spot. I'll treasure this moment. – John chuckled while sitting on the couch – I started in Afghanistan, I stopped when I came home. This seems a good reason to start again.

The detective leans against the desk with his arms crossed, eyeing the packet of cigarettes that John left on his chair, while the latter rests his head on the back of the couch, eyes closed again.

- Don't even think about it. We'll share. Tell me more.

Sherlock clears his throat.

- Do you know if Mary used to get massages?  
- No. If she did, she never mentioned it to me. Why?

He looks up and stretches his arm towards Sherlock, who grabs the cigarette with his fingertips.

- Her skin was moisturized. The smell…it was strangely familiar but I can't figure out what it was. Then I noticed four marks on the carpet forming a rectangular shape.

- A massage table.  
- Exactly.

Sherlock blows little rings of smoke into the air while John lets out a whimper, leaning forward and resting his elbow on his knees while tugging at his hair.

- So. She knew her, she probably met her multiple times before that night. She is – or she's pretending to be – a masseuse, so she can get closer to the victim, who trusts her and relaxes under her touch, giving her plenty of time to drug them. A light pinch on her skin to administer some sort of anesthetic before drugging her and…  
- Causing her heart to stop. Yes. I'm waiting, John.  
- For what?  
- For another victim. She's clearly making a point and she wanted to get my attention with Mary. Now she has it and she knows I'm waiting for more. I don't have enough to pursue a lead, what can we do? Plant surveillance on every massage parlor in London? If we're lucky, because she could easily be a freelancer, she could do this on her spare time. We have nothing. _I_ have nothing.

The doctor stands up and takes the cigarette from Sherlock's hand again: another long drag before throwing it inside his mug.

- Hey!  
- No more. Tomorrow.

John grabs the packet and walks to the stairs leading to his room; he stops and turns to Sherlock.

- Thanks.  
- Don't mention it. – He looks at the mug and grimaces - And we have to buy some ashtrays.

* * *

**Am I taking it too slow? I don't want to rush it. I still don't know what I'm doing (and apparently I'm obsessed with the two of them smoking). Thoughts? Criticism? Lottery numbers? **


	10. Liar

- Are you sure you're okay, John?  
- Yes, I am, please stop.  
- It's just…you seem awfully calm and it's weird. It's freaking me out.  
- I'm not calm. It's the quiet before the storm. I told you, I'm in the bubble. It will eventually burst.  
- Yes, right. "The bubble".

John frowns at Harry's air quotes and then shifts his look on the mug of cold tea in his hands; his sister narrows her eyes and leans closer across the table.

- Are you getting enough sleep?  
- No, not that much, no.  
- Do you need something?

John sighs and rubs his face with both hands, pressing his fingertips to his temples.

- Jesus Christ, Harry…I'm a doctor! If I need something I'll get it myself, relax!  
- Alright, alright.

She tosses her hands up with a shrug and lets her arms drop on her thighs.

- If you say so.  
- I'm pretty sure _I am_ a doctor.

They look at each other - chuckling - and after a couple of minutes of silence, John stands up, stretches his back and runs his hands through his hair.

- Gotta go. Apparently I have a surgery to run.  
- You're the boss, why don't you hire someone to cover for you?  
- Why would I? I'm perfectly capable of doing my job. You people have to stop with this nonsense; I'm not a crystal vase.

Harry sighs and looks up at him with an apprehensive smile on her face.

- If you need something…you know that, right?  
- Yes, I know, now please, pay up and let's go.

Once outside, after a tight hug she cups his face with both hands while her look softens at the sight of John's darks circles around his eyes.

- How's Sherlock treating you?  
- Surprisingly well, to be honest. It's been ages since his last sulk. Must be agonizingly painful for him.

John places his hands above his sister's, smiling – "Let me go" –, and with a small kiss on her cheek he turns and walks away.

* * *

Sherlock barges in Mycroft's office, finding his brother glaring at him while on the phone; after a few apologies and a smirk of disgust, he hangs up and leans back on his chair.

- Always a pleasure, baby brother. What's bothering you?

The detective stands in the middle of the room, gritting his teeth and breathing through his nose; his body language suggests anger and resentment but his eyes betray concern and pain.

- I lied to him.  
- I'm assuming you're talking about John.  
- No, I'm talking about Colin Firth. I just ran into him and I told him I'm a _huuuuge_ fan of The Bridget Jones's Diary.  
- You've always been quite abominable at sarcasm. Awful timing.

Sherlock starts pacing up and down, rubbing the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand; Mycroft sighs and shifts on his seat, clearly uncomfortable at his brother sudden distress.

- So you know who did it.

The younger Holmes stops, facing the door and taking a deep breath.

- Yes. Or at least I have a strong presentiment.  
- You don't do presentiments. Either you're absolutely sure or you're adamantly ignorant about it.  
- I'm sure.

Sherlock turns, takes a couple of steps and flops down a chair at the desk.

- Do you need my help?  
- No.  
- So why are you here?  
- I needed to get it out of my chest. This is killing me.  
- Are you sure I'm the right…person for…this?

Mycroft waves his hand between the two of them, a look of sorrow on his face that screamed "I'd love to help but I don't know exactly what you need from me".

- I can't talk to Lestrade, for obvious reasons. I can't talk to Molly, she would probably go nuts, yelling at me and threatening to spill the beans. Mrs. Hudson is clearly out of the picture, neither tea nor biscuits would help.  
- I'm honored, then.  
- Don't be. I'm not looking for advice or help, I'm just…I need to talk or I'll take it out on him using the most ludicrous of reasons as a pretext. The last thing I want is to make his life more miserable that it already is.

They stay like this for a while, silence falling between them, punctuated only by the muffled street noises outside.

- I told him there will be another victim, that much is true.  
- Forgive my audacity but, can I at least know what makes you so sure about the killer?  
- A smell at the crime scene. It was all over Mary's body.  
- And this smell…told you something about him? Her?  
- Her.

Sherlock clears his throat and leans forward, his elbows on Mycroft's desk.

- Do you remember Nana's house?

The older man inhales and then sighs.

- Lotus.  
- Precisely.

A knot loosens up in Sherlock's stomach and an unusual warm feeling spreads throughout his body: the thought of the two of them somehow sharing memories strangely soothes him.

- I never told this to anybody.  
- Except her, apparently.

The detective lets his head drop back for a moment, his long and pale neck stretched out and his Adam's apple bobbing visibly up and down; Mycroft's gaze travels around the room and then settles on his father's watch pocket in his hand. Sherlock rolls his eyes and snorts.

- Yes, I'm going, don't worry.

He springs up from the chair and closes the door behind him.

* * *

It's six in the evening when John pokes his head out of the door to his office and smiles.

- Natalie?  
- Yes, doctor Watson?  
- How many patients left for today?  
- A couple, but one just cancelled. So…yeah, just one.

She looks up at him with a beaming smile, clearly harbouring a major crush on his boss. A bit not good.

- Okay, thanks.

John chuckles, patting the door frame before returning to his desk, and ten minutes later his light snoring is interrupted by a knock on his door and a woman's voice behind it.

- Dr. Watson?

John snaps his head up, clearing his throat and cursing under his breath.

- Yes, come in.

The door opens and in a second the doctor's brain starts to connect the dots in front of him on its own free will.

_Designer shoes, expensive bag. Tailored trouser suit, bright red lipstick, dark hair pulled back in a rigorous chignon. Aggressive, extremely confident, probably trying to divert the attention from her vaguely childish look. Nose job? Prestigious and well paid occupation. Stock broker? Publicist? Smudges of ink on the side of her left hand. Professor? _

With a subtle and quick motion, John shakes his head to snap out of his thoughts.

_What the bloody hell happened?_

The woman -_ forty-ish, left-handed, smoker, owns a cat, divorc- oh god, stop!_ - stares at him a bit confused and alarmed so he stands up, leaning forward and stretching his arm to shake her hand.

- I'm so sorry, it's been a long day. Please, take a seat, miss…  
- Hoffman. But please, call me Aida.

John can't explain to himself why the smile that followed sent a shiver through his spine.


	11. Twisted Logic

**Brace yourself: it's a long one. At least for my standards.**

* * *

- Your blood tests look fine. You don't suffer from tachycardia and heart problems don't run in your family so chest pains and palpitations might be signs of stress, like I said the other day.

John is double checking Aida's medical records; she's buttoning up her blouse while he's turning the pages, absent-mindedly humming to himself.

- Is there something that worries you? A stressful job maybe…sometimes it's just the city. Every now and then a break is needed.  
- I do have a stressful job, but it's been years now, I can't imagine while all of a sudden-

The doctor shifts on his feet and smiles - one of those unintentionally charming, warm and beaming smile.

- You're a professor, right?  
- How…yes, Oxford. Who told you? – She frowns.  
- Oh, nobody, it's just…it's sort of a talent that I've apparently picked up from a friend. Bad company brings bad habit.

She gets off the exam table with a hop and straightens up, grinning at him.

- A friend who's a bad company?  
- No, actually, it's just…my best friend is…challenging? I don't know if it's the proper way to describe him but you get the gist.

Aida chuckles and fiddles with her hair.

_Is she flirting? Oh God no, please don't_.

- Well, as I said, nothing to overly worry about, at least for now. I think it's a temporary phase you're going through, it might resolve itself naturally and I'd like to be sure of that before prescribing meds. You're forty and it's the first time you're experiencing this kind of distress so I'm pretty sure you're going to be just fine, as long as you detect the source of the problem.

She leans forward, showing off her cleavage, and John can help but notice.

_Oh for fuck's sake…_

- I really don't know what could be the problem.  
- I'm – he clears his throat – …I'm not a therapist but I can recommend you a very good one. It might help.

John feels nervous and ill at ease: he knows very well that sometimes his innate kind manners – especially with patients – can be misinterpreted and it actually happened a lot during his career. This usually dwindles with time, once they realize there's no chance in hell that something could happen, but it's uncomfortable nevertheless. Plus, although he considers himself a confident person, aggressive women have always been able to dig up his clumsiness, especially in these situations.

- Thanks, I think it would.

He nods and takes a small piece of paper, writing down Ella's office number while Aida looks around her: she knows who he is, where he lives – but most importantly with whom – and she's also noticed the press clipping that John put into a frame and placed on a shelve behind his desk.  
Fortunately for her, she's a good liar.

- Wait…are you…that John Watson?  
- I'm sorry, what?

She points at the frame behind him and he turns around, blushing a little when he realizes what Aida's talking about.

- Oh, that. Yes, I suppose I am.  
- So Sherlock Holmes is your "bad company"!  
- Guilty as charged.

John smile is quickly replaced by a confused frown.

- So you read the blog, I assume. You're American; I don't think we're that famous.  
- Oh well. I'm a criminologist and what you do is basically my life.  
- What he does.  
- But you caught it, apparently.

_Yes, I'm tainted._

- Besides, I knew him.  
- You what?!

His eyes widen, gaping at her in shock, alarmed and curious at the same time.

- Oh, it' nothing, we met when we were young, in Venice.  
- Venice?! That's…strangely romantic.  
- Tell me about it, I had a huge crush on him.  
- You what?!

John's befuddlement seems to amuse Aida.

- Yes, of course! Have you met him? Sure you must have noticed his bizarre…charm.  
- Yes, I've noticed. He's like a magnet and we're all made of iron.  
- That's…spot-on. So you…I mean, if you don't mind me asking. Is it true? That you two…?  
- Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. No.  
- That's a lot of no's.

A skeptical grin forms on her face and John finds himself blushing again.

_Bloody hell, I will never get used to this._

- No, seriously, we're not. I'm just tired of repeating that there's nothing between us. And I honestly thought it was a thing of the past, already settled and confirmed.  
- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude, I was just curious.  
- No, don't worry, a lot of people are. Never understood why.  
- Well, you would make a cute couple.  
- Thanks, I'll keep that in mind – he chortles.

- So...the number?  
- Right, sorry, here. She's a great therapist, she helped me a lot with the…thing that happened with Sherlock.  
- Oh, that. It was so sad.  
- Yes, well. It all turned out for the best, right?

She smiles broadly but as soon as John turns to his computer her face changes in something that can only be described as purely wicked. After a while, they shake hands and Aida stands up, making sure to draw attention to her body while she turns her back to John; she stops on her way out and leans against the door frame.

- By the way, tell him I say hi.

It's almost a whisper and John can't help but shiver again.

- Sure, will do.

* * *

Sherlock is sprawled across his bed, his palms flattened against the warm sheets and his eyes closed.

Feeling guilty was never a problem for someone like him: he's never felt trapped between the truth and a necessary lie, never experienced the paralyzing fear of knowing that is too late, that a simple omission of truth has started an avalanche, tumbling down on them and getting closer and closer.  
He's never been a liar either, lying has no reason to be when you decide that brutal honesty is your trademark, that you don't care about hurting other people's feeling; the filter between his brain and his mouth is pretty loose, if not missing.

The sound of John dragging his feet as he climbs the stairs makes him suddenly aware of his surroundings so he springs up from the bed and strides in the living room as the doctor enters their flat.

- Evening.

John decides that the growl that came out of Sherlock's throat is his idea of a greeting, while the detective sits down at his microscope, pretending to experiment on something.

- Tea?  
- Mmm.  
- I take it as a yes.

He turns on the kettle and after a couple of minutes he slides Sherlock's mug across the table

- What's new?  
- Obviously nothing.  
- Of course.

He takes a couple of sips and leans back on his seat; he knows almost nothing about Sherlock's past and he just started to open up so John fears that an ill-timed personal question would scare him away.  
The curiosity, though, is eating him from the inside.

- So…I met someone today.

Sherlock looks up to him for a second before resuming his fake experiment.

- John, far from me to tell you how to live your life, especially on this matter, but isn't it a bit early for romantic involvement with another woman?

John leans forward as if something kicked him in the stomach.

- No, you idiot. It's not like that. It was a patient. She told me you knew each other when you were young.

Sherlock freezes; the test tube he's holding suddenly breaks in a thousand little shards.

- Jesus, Sherlock!  
- No, it's nothing, don't worry.  
- Don't be daft, you're bleeding!

He walks over to him and lifts his right hand: the detective doesn't even have the time to make him feel like an overprotective mother that John is already picking up the pieces of glass with a pair of tweezers.

- What's gotten into you, what happened?  
- Nothing John, stop being melodramatic, it happens.  
- If you say so.

A hiss escapes from Sherlock's mouth and he immediately withdraws his hand, looking at it and pouting like a kid who just broke a window while playing soccer.

- Stop being such a child!

John sighs and tries to take Sherlock's mind off the pain by asking him about Aida.

- So this woman, Aida Hoffman, claims to know you. She told me you met in Venice and that she had a crush on you.

Sherlock is suddenly grateful that John's is focusing on his hand, grateful that his look of sheer terror is going unnoticed.

- Irrelevant.  
- Don't be ridiculous. Sometimes I forget that you didn't just pop up out of thin air when I met you, that you have a past and memories. You don't share them and it's fine, I'm not asking you to. I'm just saying, it's nice to know that some things happen to geniuses too.  
- Like what, exactly?  
- You know…crushes, first love. Normal stuff.  
- What makes you think I reciprocated her puerile obsession?

John looks up at him and smiles.

- Figures. So she was madly in love and you just, what, didn't care?  
- Basically. She was my first kiss, though.

The doctor grips lightly at Sherlock's wrist, staring at him, silent for a couple of seconds.

- This is so weird.  
- What?  
- You, experiencing normal things like a first kiss.  
- Please don't tell me you actually believed Mycroft.

John starts cleaning his wounds, relieved to have something to keep him busy, something that lets him avoid Sherlock's gaze without having to explain why.

- I don't know, you never talk about this. I don't like jumping to conclusions without having enough data.

The detective smiles, mostly because John doesn't realize what he just said.

- What did you talk about?  
- Nothing really, I knew him, he was weird but I liked him, we were young and that's it.  
- Good.  
- I don't understand why you kissed her if you didn't like her, though.  
- She was aesthetically pleasant and I was curious. You don't have to marry someone to share a kiss, I just seized the opportunity she gave me. I knew she liked me, I wanted to collect data about it and I did it.

John's hand lets go of Sherlock's wrist and laughs, before washing up and taking his seat again.

- So even as a teenager something like kissing was nothing but a chance to store information inside your mind palace.  
- Exactly! Just like sex.

The doctor chokes on his cold tea and chuckles.

- Sorry, sorry! It just feels…weird.  
- John, I'm human. And I'm…me, you know who I am, do you really think that my constant thirst for knowledge would stop me just because sex isn't my priority?  
- It isn't?  
- What do you think? Sexual impulses are physiological and unavoidable for a healthy human being. I don't ignore them I just don't act on them and focusing on my work usually does the trick. I don't go around looking for sex, my brain doesn't work like that. It's not a physical need for me and once I got it out of my system that was it. If I was to choose to have sex now it would be a cerebral necessity, my body would respond to a mental impulse. I guess I would – as you peasants might say – literally fuck the brain out of somebody.

John frowns and shakes his head.

- I don't know what's more upsetting, hearing you say "fuck the brain out of somebody" or the fact that what you just said actually makes a lot of sense.

Sherlock smiles, his words cut off by a beep from his phone.

_"Your John is so handsome and adorable. I almost felt guilty for a second"._

* * *

**So this happened. Thanks for the reviews and the alerts and the favs and all that. Getting feedbacks helps a lot.**


	12. Cemeteries Of London

_Impatient. Scratching his stubble way too much. Not an itch, a nervous tic. Leg bouncing up and down, upper lip twitching. Right hand grabbing at the armrest, left thumb rubbing his ring finger._

John stands up and shifts on his feet, throwing the paper on the coffee table.

- Do you want me to go with you?

The doctor turns and stares at Sherlock sitting on his armchair: he doesn't have to ask.

- Mary's grave. Six weeks now and you've never visited since the funeral. I'm not questioning your motives, I'm just asking. Do you need…help?  
- Yeah, I'm…I don't know why, I want to but…  
- You don't have to make excuses.  
- I'm not, Sherlock, I just…

The younger man looks up at him and raises his eyebrows, waiting.

- Fine. Come. Do you mind?  
- Not at all.

The ride in the cab is silent, giving them the time to realize how dangerous this territory is: Sherlock is tapping his fingers on his knees while John is absent-mindedly rubbing his thigh, both looking out of the window.

- I didn't think this through.

The doctor lets out a sigh and looks at him for a second, before focusing his eyes on his own reflection.

- No, Sherlock, you didn't.  
- I'll take a cab home if you like.  
- No, just…no. Stay.

The reason John never visited after the funeral lies in the graveyard itself: from Mary's tombstone you can see Sherlock's. Or at least the spot where a black piece of marble used to support John's weight every bloody Sunday. Of course, right? Having your best friend die before your eyes and your fiancé killed by a brand new shiny psychopath wasn't enough. No sir, the cemetery has to be the same, otherwise you're not suffering properly.

- Are you sure?  
- Yes, it's fine. What's the worst that could happen?

They look at each other and smile.

- You do realize that we're all doomed now?  
- Yes. And I don't have my gun.

The giggle fades away once the cab stops in front of the gates.

- You're sure you're fine with me being here? I won't let you punch me again.

John takes a deep breath and pats Sherlock on the shoulder before opening the door.  
Next thing he knows, he's standing right in front of Mary's grave without having the faintest idea how he got there: he sighs and sits down on the ground, crossed legs and elbows pressing on his knees. After a couple of minutes, Sherlock looks around and rolls his eyes, taking place beside him.

- I feel like shit.  
- Understandable.  
- No, Sherlock, you don't…you don't get it.  
- Then explain it to me.

John licks is lips and stares at the engraved letters before him.

- I can't cry.

The detective lets his friend's words sink in his mind for a second.

- You cried.  
- Yes, when I…right after, when I came home to you. But I never…it didn't happen again. It's been more than a month, I found my future wife brutally killed on our bed and I…I can't cry.

Sherlock ponders what side of him to show, the cold, analytical sheet of ice that has a rational explanation to everything, or the sympathetic friend that uses fake words as a shock blanket.

_Okay, the second one. At least try._

- You said it yourself. You will eventually. Now it's just…too much.  
- I hate it.  
- I can imagine, but-  
- No, Sherlock, no, you can't imagine. It feels like…it feels like I can't have both.  
- Both?  
- Both. You and a wife.  
- …what are you talking about?

John stands up and wipes his trousers.

- I'm talking about us.  
- What's the problem with us? We work perfectly fine, well-oiled machine.  
- Yes, exactly and that's why I couldn't find a woman who put up with us before…before you fucking died!

Sherlock grits his teeth and breathes through his nose.

- Please tell me I don't have to recite the speech again.  
- No, no, don't bother. I got it, you did it for me, thank you, it's just…I really don't know who to explain it to you.  
- I'm not that emotionally disabled John, give me some credit.  
- I never said that.  
- It was implied.

John growls and sighs and huffs and then growls again; he's pacing up and down, circling Sherlock and fidgeting nervously.

- Calm down. Talk to me as if I'm a five-year old.

John stops and looks at him with a small smile on his face.

- Yes, skip the obvious joke. Talk.  
- Remember Sarah?  
- Vaguely.  
- Don't lie to me Sherlock, you liked her.

The detective waves a hand in a dismissive way and rolls his eyes again.

- Well, when we broke up…  
- Please don't tell me she thought we were together.  
- No, nothing like that, would you let me talk?! Christ, Sherlock…  
- Sorry, sorry. Do go on.  
- She told me she couldn't put up with us. That she didn't want to spend the rest of her life worrying about me, fearing that I'd get shot in some remote, dirty alley with you running after some criminal and leaving me, bleeding to death.

Nostrils flaring and face red with outrage, Sherlock whisper through his teeth.

- I would never, you know that John.  
- Yes, I do. She didn't, no matter how hard I tried to explain how we…function together. After our first date she realized what my life was like but she thought it was a one-time accident and she was happy to accept you in the "package deal", as she said.  
- Package-what?  
- She knew that…she could never ask me to choose between you and her. And she accepted your presence in my life.  
- I'm not a presence to accept! I'm not the nosy aunt from Sussex!

John groans and grabs Sherlock's arm.

- Up. We're walking. If you stay still I'm going to punch you again.  
- Thanks John, you're so considerate. You were saying?  
- She was okay with us, she wanted you in my life because you kept - keep me sane, for some reason, but when our flat almost blew up that was…that was the beginning of the end. She couldn't stand the thought of not knowing what would happen next. I couldn't blame her, she was right.

They're already out of the gates, walking side by side down the street; Sherlock turns and starts walking backwards, facing John.

- She was?  
- Yes, of course she was, Sherlock. I can't impose my life on somebody else, not this kind of life anyway.  
- Is your point in the near future?  
- Yes, shut up.

John sighs and hides his hand in his pockets.

- At the time I put the problem aside. Because it was a problem, it was an issue that needed to be solved, but I wasn't…I just…didn't want to, okay?  
- Don't look at me like I'm forcing you to say things you don't want to admit, John. You're doing this all on your own.

The doctor ignores him and quickens his pace.

- Then…Reichenbach happened.  
- Reichenbach? Is that what you called it?  
- Yes, shut up. After you died I was…homeless. Not in the literal meaning of the word, it was a feeling. Without you there was no home. I'm not expecting you to understand, you fail at grasping the most basic of human emotions, let alone something as complicated as this.

Sherlock winces and decides to let it go for the sake of the moment.

- The point, John.

John stops in the middle of the pavement and turns to face his friend.

- THE POINT, Sherlock, is that I found someone when you were gone. And she was beautiful, smart, kind and generous and I loved her so much, you have no idea, but every now and then I just stared at her thinking "is she here just because he's not"? Am I in a relationship because he's dead? Because his presence was so overwhelming that I didn't actually need a girlfriend? And now that he's gone I've got this huge emotional hole to fill and she's the first person willing to do so? Am I just…

John waves his hands in the air and then gives his friend a shove in his shoulder.

- …settling for a life I don't actually want just because I can't have the one I really want?

The doctor's panting is echoing in Sherlock's ears.

- After all this time, Sherlock, after all we've been through, I still can't understand how is it possible for you to deduce someone's job by a string on a shoe and at the same time be so bloody oblivious when it comes to me, your best friend.  
- John, I-  
- NO! I don't need to hear your veiled insults now. Yes, I'm an imbecile, yes, I'm tediously ordinary and boring. I don't care!  
- You never told me this.

The detective's voice is so low that John has to stop breathing for a second to make sure he actually talked.

- Everybody knew Sherlock! Everyone knows! At the Yard, at Barth's, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, even Mycroft knows!  
- Know what, exactly?  
- Know that I'd gladly give up a normal life to be with you, you giant idiot! You're here I don't care about relationship, do you understand Sherlock? Do you get the gravity of the situation? If I get to spend the rest of my life on our couch, drinking tea and solving crimes then I don't care about anything else.  
- And this bothers you?  
- Yes, Sherlock, it does! Because it's irrational! I've always liked being in a relationship, I like being the great boyfriend, I like dates and sex and women. And then you came and all my priorities suddenly shifted. I didn't know I needed adrenaline rushes and action and danger and then a cup of tea on the couch watching crap telly before going to bed. This is my life now and I LOVE IT! And it drives me mad!  
- Than what's the problem?  
- Wh-…the problem? The problem, Sherlock, is that a wonderful human being is dead and I feel responsible. Because I felt lonely and she was there and, don't get me wrong, she was perfect for me, but she wasn't…you. She wasn't my best friend and now I fear I stayed with her just because you weren't around anymore and now she's dead. She's dead Sherlock, because of me. _She chose me, I settled for her_. Do you see the problem?  
- Yes, but-  
- No, don't. Don't argue. There's nothing to say. Can we please go home now?

Sherlock is grateful John doesn't let him talk because he doesn't have that much to say.

- You go, I'm…I need to…  
- Fine. Dinner, later?  
- Chinese.

**###**

Sherlock comes home in the dead of the night; John didn't text him, didn't call him, didn't phoned Lestrade and all the hospital in London to check if he was still alive. He wanted to, he needed to, especially after all he said, but he knew this was Sherlock's way to give him space; after an evening of maddening pacing around the flat and a cold dinner, John flopped down on his armchair around midnight and dozed off. It's three in the morning when the sound of the keys turning in the lock wakes him up with a start, but he stays still, holding his breath and hoping to blend in the dark.  
The detective walks in and sighs: John can hear his steps coming closer to him and once he's standing right behind his chair, one of Sherlock's hands comes to rest on his head, tussling his hair a little.

- John?  
- Yes?  
- You know I love you, right?  
- Yes, I know.  
- Right. Good night.

* * *

**Just like that.**


	13. Your Bones

Sherlock didn't tell John what happened that night while he was at home pacing up and down worrying sick about his best friend. He never will, for that matter.  
The last word he said was "Chinese" and then he quickly turned and strode off without looking back; he didn't see John still standing in the middle of the pavement, staring blankly before him, and the doctor didn't see Sherlock doing the same thing just around the corner.  
The detective wandered aimlessly for hours, bumping into people, walls, corners, doors, everything that was on his way: John's words and broken voice kept ringing in his ears, his flustered face was all he could see and he didn't even notice that he passed by Baker Street at least four times without stopping. It was late in the evening when he finally did and remembered about dinner: he paused in the middle of a street and shivered, suddenly aware of the harsh cold wind that was blowing mercilessly, when a text alert snapped him out of his thoughts: "Answer me".  
He checked his messages and found at least twenty texts, all from the same number; one of them caught his attention and he immediately hailed a cab.

- West Ealing Station.

The words just tumbled out of his mouth before his brain could register the thought of John waiting for him at home, and within five minutes – or at least that it felt like to Sherlock – the car stopped. He threw money at the cabbie – probably not enough, given the yelling and cursing he heard behind him – and the cold air nipped his cheeks as he started to run to an old warehouse.  
He stopped right outside the entrance and smirked at the cliché of the situation: the villain who wants to meet in an abandoned place, the anti-hero that gladly accepts because he craves danger and strangely appreciates the company of a good old-fashioned psychopath, but something in his stomach twisted and he found himself quelling the urge to panic and scream.  
Sherlock doesn't do panic: rage, indifference, sometimes fear, but panic is something he's not familiar with. The last time he panicked he was at a poll, he was waiting for a serial killer with a memory stick in his hand and a Semtex-clothed John Watson in front of him; in a nutshell, he had every reason to.  
At that moment, with an unhinged and rusty door dividing him from what he secretly wanted, he had none.  
He swallowed, took a deep breath and walked in.

- So you're going by the book now. The Great Book of Criminal Stereotypes. Rule number 34: meet your arch-enemy in an abandoned warehouse. You and my brother have the same book, apparently.

The central part of the warehouse was lit by the street lamps outside; Sherlock's words echoed and were followed by the faint sound of footsteps behind him.

- Don't be that way, you know you love this.  
- And by "this" you mean killing my best friend's fiancé, reducing him to an empty shell of a man, forcing me to feel guilty for something mind-numbingly dull happened 20 years ago? Yes, I love this.

Sherlock didn't turn and Aida kept getting closer to him: she grabbed his wrists and tied them up.

- A girl needs to take precautions.  
- A girl? Glad to see you're still delusional.

The woman growled and planted the heel of her shoe right behind Sherlock's knee: he collapsed under the staggering pain that spread throughout his body and somehow reduced him to laughter.

- Is this funny?

Sherlock snorted and tried to control his body: all his nerve endings were on fire and as he stirred the rope dig deeper into his wrists. He balanced his weight on his knees, this time facing Aida.

- Yes, quite. All this because of a kiss? Am I that good?  
- Don't flatter yourself.  
- You're my favourite kind of psychopath.  
- Said the man with a favourite kind of psychopath. Are you sure I'm the damaged one here?  
- You're the one who plans to kill women to get to me.

She giggled and walked to a dark corner, out of the detective's sight.

- How rude of me, dear. Here, take a seat.

Sherlock felt her hand running through his hair and then tugging, forcing him to stand up before being shoved down on a chair.

- Better?  
- Peachy. So why am I here, exactly? Why not kill me now and spare dozens of people's life?  
- Kill you? No, don't be obvious, I'm gonna kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it though; I'm saving it up for something special.

While talking, Aida bent over and brushed his lips over Sherlock's ear, her arms around his shoulders so she could feel his muscles growing tense at the sound of those words.

- Wh-  
- I really, really enjoyed pointing that rifle at you.

She whispered in his ear while her hands slowly lifted the skirt before moving to sit on his lap.

- James was an extraordinary man. It was a shame he died.

Like panic, Sherlock doesn't do shock. Surprise, yes, from time to time you can see his eyes and mouth widen at once when something catches him off guard, but after a second is gone. That night at the warehouse Sherlock fully understood the meaning of "flabbergasted".  
Aida leaned back to enjoy the view: his mouth slightly parted, his eyes wide open in one of his rare look of sheer horror at the thought of what those words implied.

- Did not expect that, did you?

She leaned closer again and licked his upper lip, startling Sherlock who glared at her, disgusted and outraged.

- What? Are you really that surprised?  
- I don't know, you tell me.

Aida sighed in an overly dramatic way.

- I moved here ten years ago. I was a very promising girl, you know? I started working as an assistant to a Criminology professor at Oxford. He asked for me, can you believe it? One day, during an open lesson, the class was so crowded we could barely walk to our desk but I still managed to catch a glimpse of his eyes among the crowd. They were…digging into my brain, I couldn't look away. It wasn't sexual attraction, it was more like…

She paused and shifted on Sherlock's lap, getting closer to his chest and inches away from his face.

- …you know the feeling when something is disgustingly horrifying but you can't help but staring? Like a plane crash right outside your window… fascinating and petrifying at the same time.  
- I don't care, get to the point.  
- Well, he asked for my help with something. I said no, of course, and then he offered me money, the kind of money that could turn your life around. And just for a consult!

Sherlock winced at the word and tried to free himself with a wiggle that eventually made things worse: Aida slid closer and pulled a gun out of the waistband of her skirt, pointing it to his neck.

- And he liked me. He wanted me to join him but asked me to continue with my work as a criminologist. You never know, right?  
- Join him in what, exactly?  
- I didn't know at first, but when he was sure about my intentions he brought me here. And showed it to me.  
- His plan?  
- Precisely. He was very fond of you, Sherlock. In his own way, I guess. He was the other side of the same coin. An evil twin, if you will. He was like you, only…not a coward.

The last three words were punctuated by open mouth kisses planted on Sherlock's neck.

- You know he had men at Scotland Yard, right? He still does. And when a young gangly boy pestered them with his doubts on Carl Powers' death, well…he took an interest in you. Can you blame him?

Sherlock didn't answer at first, he just stared at her, wincing at her warm breath that was wafting lightly on his neck.

- That day on the roof...  
- You were targeting me.

Aida smiled and brushed her knuckles on his cheek.

- So, so clever. I told him you were three steps ahead of him but he didn't listen. You knew all along, what he saw and what I saw…was just a well performed act.  
- You think?  
- Don't play dumb. There's no way in hell you didn't know about the Partita Number One, Sherlock. You knew that the code and the "blowing up NATO in alphabetical order" was a farce. You knew he will be upset after seeing you clueless and not worthy of his time. You knew what he wanted to do, the loophole in his plan and the gun in his mouth, all of it. And you knew that someone was pointing a rifle at you, because that was one hell of a good show honey.  
- I'm glad I entertained you. Now. I'm surprisingly hungry and John is probably calling all the hospital, so would you mind get to the bloody point of me being here?

Aida stood up and tucked her gun away before freeing Sherlock's wrists.

- Ah, yes. John. What an adorable man. I wanted to shrink him and put him in my pocket.  
- Yes, he told me of your little encounter. What drug did you use to fake the symptoms?  
- That's not really important, is it?  
- Then tell me what is.  
- We're just two old friends catching up!

Sherlock grinned and moved to stand before her.

- I see that time took its toll on your memory. Let me refresh it for you: I was bored and you were clay in my hands. You were annoyingly ordinary, even in your pathetic attempts to get my attention. You were useful for that brief, incriminating moment and for that only purpose. End of story. We are not, and never been, friends. But you know that, right?

She clenched her jaw and swallowed, then a wicked smirk appeared on her face.

- Are you glad she's out of the picture?  
- What are you talking about?  
- Mary. She was in the way, wasn't she?  
- In the way of what?  
- Of you two. You and John.

The detective smiled at her like you'd do with a three-year old that just said something dumb and unintentionally funny; Aida sensed the pity in his eyes and grew angrier.

- I bet you thought about it. How to get rid of the woman who was ruining your only friendship. She clearly knew how to handle you, that must have driven you insane. Mary was a confident, smart and lively woman. Getting you two apart was like tilting at windmills, especially after your prodigal return, and she knew that. Oh, John loved her Sherlock, you can't imagine how much. She told me about their relationship since the first time we met and when she felt safe around me she saw me as a confidante.  
- You're stalling and I'm starting to get really bored. The last time it happened I started shooting at a wall.

He pushed her back, grabbing the gun with a swift move and pointing it at her ribs.

- I guess I could try with a moving target this time.  
- I touched a raw nerve, didn't I? You're afraid of what she might have said to me.  
- I don't care what she thought of me.  
- It's not what she thought. It's what John felt. Or rather feels.  
- I don't care about that either.  
- You're digging the muzzle of the gun into my skin, Sherlock, and you're not a violent man, despite what others might think. You're nervous.

Sherlock let her go and stepped back before unloading the gun and throwing the pieces away.

- I'm disappointed. I thought I was in for an interesting evening. I guess I was wrong. If you don't mind now, I wanted Chinese tonight.

The detective turned but Aida was quicker: she wrapped a firm hand around his wrist, pulled him back and lifted her knee to make him fall on his back. Sherlock collapsed with a loud thump that took his breath away for a couple of seconds.

- For Christ's sake, will you just stop with this charade? This is utterly useless; you're a waste of time, space, energy and oxygen. What the bloody hell do you want from me?  
- I want you to understand how important you're to John – she crouched down beside him – and I want you to realize how essential he is to you. And once you're aware of that, I want you to live in fear. Fear that something might happen to him, fear that you could die tomorrow, leaving him with nothing, again. You're way too confident, Sherlock, and I have to give it to you, you don't have that many weak points. But John is. John is your weakness and I want to exploit it. I want you to be terrified of losing him, I want you to understand what life would be without him and that you clearly underestimate his value. I want you to know that Mary feared you and your relationship with him. She feared you might ask him to choose and she knew John would have chosen you. John loved her, he really did, but he loved her knowing you were dead and that he had no choice but to embrace normalcy. And after having tasted what life with you would have been like, normalcy was prison. Mary listened to John having nightmares, yelling your name and crying in his sleep. He didn't usually wake up so she never told him about her sleepless nights spent trying to lull him to sleep again. John loves you and you know that, but you can't even begin to imagine the impact and the consequences that this kind of love has on him. And I want that consequences bearing down on you too. I want you to be on the same boat and I want you to fear every minute of it, from the tiny sways to the storms and the icebergs. I want panic to be the first thing you feel in the morning and the thing that grips your heart before sleeping, spreading through your bones. James was wrong. The need to be right and a step ahead of everyone isn't your weakness. Well, not anymore at least. And neither is targeting John. Your Achilles' heel is your confidence about him. And I want to shake it, I want you to doubt yourself, to understand that I could slip something into his coffee tomorrow and you could lose him forever. Just like that. You have to panic about the fact that you spent a whole hour with his fiancé's killer without calling the cops or even thinking about it. He will never forgive you Sherlock.

Aida was leaning on the floor, shifting her weight on her hands placed above the detective's shoulders, glaring into his eyes.

- So there you have it. This is what I want from you.

She stood up brushing her knees, calm and unruffled like nothing ever happened; she walked to the door but paused right before leaving.

- You wanna know something else? Molly is a very nice girl.

* * *

**I humbly beg your pardon for any mistakes or spelling horrors. Bear with me.**


End file.
